


set a fire in my head, set a fire in my bed

by redbrunja



Series: set a fire in my bed, set a fire in my head [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Humor, Mission Fic, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, fake engagement, forced to share a bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5421302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Illya and Gaby had checked into their hotel as scheduled, Gaby was sure that Napoleon’s ploy of switching them from a room with two single beds to one ridiculously large bed would have… provoked a reaction, of some sort.</p><p>But circumstances conspired against Napoleon in Venice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	set a fire in my head, set a fire in my bed

If Illya and Gaby had checked into their hotel as scheduled, Gaby was sure that Napoleon’s ploy (and it was _so_ obviously Napoleon’s ploy) of switching them from a room with two single beds to one ridiculously large bed would have… provoked a reaction, of some sort.

 

Yesterday, they’d left their bags with the concierge and, once again playing an affianced couple, immediately exited the hotel to “go see the sights” after their ten hour flight. What followed was twenty-six hours of chasing the tracker in Napoleon’s shoe across Venice which included:

 

  * running up and down and up a ridiculous number of stair cases
  * a frustrating gondola chase
  * breaking the right heel of her favorite pair of red pumps
  * a rogue MI6 agent whom Gaby punched in the face and then locked in the freezer of a gelato shop
  * uncooperative clotheslines
  * a suicidal pigeon
  * jumping out a second story window and into Illya’s arms



 

...and culminated in fishing Napoleon out of a canal that smelled like sewage and slowly rotting fish.

 

"Venice is rapidly losing its charms," Solo commented, wringing out his jacket.

 

"Is not the only thing," Illya muttered.

 

Napoleon was acting like a wet cat, Illya was wearing a put-upon frown, and Gaby found the whole thing _highly_ amusing.

 

Part of that might have been the lack of sleep. She had certainly reached the punch-drunk stage of exhaustion by the time she and Illya staggered into their hotel room. Gaby didn’t even glance at the bed before crawling into the shower.

 

When she came out Illya brushed past her, closing the bathroom door firmly behind him.

 

She barely even registered that there was only one bed. Gaby didn't bother with her pajamas. She just tucked the end of the towel wrapped around her a little deeper between her slight breasts and crawled under the covers.

 

She was already curled up, back to Illya, and three-quarters asleep when she heard Illya enter the room.

 

"I'll-" he started.

 

Without looking at him, Gaby reached back, tugged the covers down, and then slapped the mattress impatiently. Then she curled into a tighter ball. That was all the effort she was going to put into soothing Illya's sense of propriety. If he wanted to sleep on the hard floor or jam himself onto the tiny settee, that was his business.

 

She was barely aware of his weight sinking onto the mattress.

 

There, see? There was acres of room. They were hardly going to notice each other.

 

She slept deep and dreamless, and when she woke, slowly blinking her eyes open, the room was filled with the honey-colored light of early morning.

 

Illya was wrapped around her.

 

Somehow, in the night, she'd twisted out of her towel, and she could feel every place they touched against her bare skin. Illya was all banked body heat against her. His chin rested on the top of her head and she could feel his chest against her back. Their legs were tangled together. Illya's arm was draped across her waist, curled around her, his hand almost tucked under her side. He'd put on pajamas before getting into the bed - or at least pajama pants - and there was a thin layer of cotton between his half-hard penis and her rear.

 

Gaby held her breath.

 

She should untangle herself and slip out of bed. There were complementary robes in the bathroom, she should slip out of this bed and into a terry-cloth dressing gown, if she was unwilling to climb into a haute couture dress at - she squinted at the clock - 5:43 a.m. Yes, that was what she should do.

 

Instead she forced herself to breath quietly for a moment (although she couldn't quite manage to slow her pulse) and then shifted her hips back. Very casually. Like she was just stretching, barely conscious.

 

Illya made a low sound in his throat and pulled her closer, his hand spread across her belly. His prick hardened against her and she could feel the faint rasp of his chest hair against her shoulder blades.

 

Gaby keep her body loose, tried to ignore the heat pooling under her skin, tried not to think about Illya's long, broad fingers descending even further, delving between her thighs and spreading open her slick folds, tried not think about how easy it would be to pull down his pajama pants _just_ enough, did not imagine throwing her leg back across his thigh, opening herself up to him.

 

Illya murmured something in Russian against her hair. She missed most of it, but she _distinctly_ heard the diminutive form of her name.

 

He shifted, pushed himself up on one elbow, and Gaby knew the _exact_ moment he woke up, because he threw himself across the bed, away from her. He fell off the mattress, taking most of the covers with him, and hit the floor so hard that he knocked over the lamp on the bedside table.

 

The lamp fell to its side, rolled towards the edge of the table. Gaby scrambled across the bed, caught it before it could fall on Illya's head.

 

Illya stared up at her. Gaby stared back. Her attention was caught by the firm muscles of his chest, the curve of his pectorals, lightly dusted with hair. Illya's thin cotton pajamas did nothing to hide his arousal. Gaby wanted climb down on the floor with him, straddle him, trace every line of his body with her fingers, her mouth. She would dig her fingers into the swell of his biceps and trace the deceptively delicate line of his collarbone with her mouth. She'd learn what made him moan, what would make him say her name in a rough voice.

 

He swallowed, the motion drawing her attention up to his neck, his face. He looked transfixed, his pupils dilated until she could only see the barest rim of blue in his eyes. Gaby realized she still holding the lamp, still kneeling on the edge of the bed, still naked. Her nipples tightened under his gaze. She wanted to feel his mouth on her nipples, wanted to slide one of his broad hands between her thighs, ride his fingers until she came.

 

She inhaled deeply, a proposition tangling in a mix of German and English on her tongue, and Illya tore his eyes away, scowled fiercely at the wall. The tips of his ears were pink.

 

He surged to his feet, kicking his feet free of the covers. He didn't look her. "I will be outside," he said stiffly. He slammed his suitcase closed, forcing it to latch despite the shirt sleeve in the way, and stormed out. He kept his face resolutely turned away from her.

 

Gaby set the lamp very carefully back on the beside table.

 

~~~~

 

Gaby was at one of the hotel’s lovely wrought-iron al fresco tables. She was ignoring the breakfast pastries in favor of an English-language newspaper and sweet, black coffee. To her right was the plaza, built with picturesque tawny stone, circled by sweet little storefronts with window-boxes bursting with fresh greenery. Across the plaza, against one of the buildings, was Illya. He stood with his arms crossed, as far from her as it was possible to be, while still remaining in sight. The stone building around him looked less solid and permanent than the set of his shoulders.

 

Seated across from her, Napoleon took a bite of his cornetto al miele and looked terrifically amused.

 

"I came upon a half-naked Russian in the hotel hallway this morning," Napoleon said airily.

 

"Did you?" Gaby said, sounding politely disinterested. As if one found half-naked Russians in so many places the hallway of a hotel barely merited comment. She didn't look up from the paper she was reading.

 

Napoleon tried a new tack. “Trouble in paradise? It can’t be a good sign that your fiancé is so very far from your side this morning.”

 

She trusted that her sunglasses would hide any flickers of expression her poker face didn’t conceal. She turned the page of her newspaper. “You remember that he’s not really my fiancé?” she said. That was a phrase she’s said variants of a disturbing number of times.

 

She took a sip of her coffee, wished she’d thought to ask the wait staff to spike it. And to think, she’d had the thought as she descended for breakfast that Napoleon’s presence as a buffer would be _helpful_.

 

Napoleon waved cheerfully at Illya. Illya remained where he was.

 

“Are we going to do our clandestine plotting by semaphore flag, now?” Napoleon inquired.

 

Gaby sighed and gestured at one of the hotel’s waiters. It was clearly not too early to start drinking.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to say hi over at [my tumblr](http://swimthroughthefires.tumblr.com/) where I've been TMFU and Gallya trash since September. Come, share my trashcan. It has almost kisses and UST and car chases.


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